Stand by me
by Yeziel Moore
Summary: Somebody else found the frozen Captain America before S.H.I.E.L.D. did. Who do you think it was?
1. Breaking the Ice

**Title: **_Stand by me_  
**Author: **_Yeziel Moore_**  
Fandom:** _Harry Potter/Avengers (2012)_  
**Characters:** _Harry, Steve Rogers, Avengers, S.H.I.E.L.D., etc._  
**Pairings:**_ Unknown._**  
Rating: **_T._**  
Warnings: **_AU. Language. Violence. (Prone to change)_**  
Summary: **_Somebody else found the frozen Captain America before S.H.I.E.L.D. How would two abnormal and displaced heroes get along? Will their friendship change anything? What difference a better adapted and less uptight Steve Rogers could make? What difference, if any, will Harry make? (What will I do with all these 'what ifs'?) _  
**Disclaimer: **_I don't own Harry Potter or Avengers or anything with copyright. This mad bunny, on the other hand, is mine._

**AN:**_ I really ought to put a restraining order on those damned plot bunnies because this one jumped me out of nowhere while I was minding my own business. I just imagined how a conversation between these two would go if Harry had found Steve. I've to admit that it was a lot crackier in my mind.  
_

_I'll try to see where this go, but I suck at regular updates, so don't kill me!  
_

___Credit where it's due: The name was taken from a song by Ben e King. It's an old and well known song, look it up people._

* * *

**1. Breaking the Ice.**

The fight back to consciousness was a slow and disorientating process that Steve would pay anything to be able to avoid. No matter how many times he had been knocked unconscious the return to the waking world was a chore every damned time. The vulnerability of those first minutes was something that his soldier mindset simply could not reconcile with. His only relief was that since he was injected with the Super Soldier Serum it was a lot harder to knock him unconscious.

This time, coming back from the darkness was a lot more difficult than all the others put together though, and Steve had no idea of why. His mind was at an all-time slow and it felt as if someone had replaced his brain with cotton and a set of drums, very loud drums; his body was no better, he felt heavy and sluggish, like the weight of the world was sitting on top of him and at the same time trying to push him back into the abyss he had barely escaped from. For a brief moment he panicked but there was little he could do in his state, his body was numb and his mind was miles away, too addled and basically incapable of putting together the pieces of the puzzle his memories had become.

Steve tried to calm his racing heart but he found it impossible to focus. It was suddenly too dark and the space around him too constricting. He tried to reason with himself, to calm his fastening pulse because panicking never did any good to anyone; he tried opening his eyes, if only he could see his surroundings he was sure everything would be better, even if he was in a cold cell somewhere he could ground himself with the solid knowledge of _where_... His eyes didn't open. Steve couldn't tell if he had been blinded on purpose or if he was just too tired to open them. It didn't matter because his breathing was coming faster now and he found his frustration being swallowed by the beginning of a textbook panic attack.

He didn't remember what exactly happened next. He had been told, of course, but the only thing he could remember was a steady voice pitched low, calming and comforting all at once. It had reminded him of Bucky and that was what truly calmed him, because Bucky would never hurt him, Bucky was his friend and protector. Then something warm enveloped him and he knew no more. This time the darkness around him was the calming cadence of sleep instead of the drowning void of unconsciousness. So he let go.

* * *

The second time Steve pushed his way into awareness the process went far more smoothly than his last -embarrassing- attempt. His body still felt abnormally heavy and his thoughts seemed to be waddling in syrup, but this time his eyes responded to his command and his head was mostly clear, if a bit slow in the uptake. However, he was a soldier and it was high time that he started acting like one. Opening his eyes in an unknown place and situation had been a mistake, he remembered being taught that, but fortunately it seemed like he was alone for the time being so he pushed the slip-up aside. From his prone position Steve proceeded to catalogue what he saw and felt.

He immediately knew that was lying on a bed, bigger and more comfortable than any other bed he had ever slept on, with soft linens that screamed expensive to his senses so attuned to poverty. He was covered with at least five blankets, much to his confusion. His confusion fled when he realized that he was _cold_ in spite of the fire he could hear burning away in a nearby hearth, so either it was winter in this place or something was very wrong with him because Steve hadn't felt cold, really cold, since he was injected with the Super Soldier Serum. That made alarms to go off in Steve's head. Momentarily forgetting about his surroundings Steve shoved the blankets away from his body and noticed that he was wearing night clothes instead of his Captain America suit, ignoring this he proceeded to take stock of his injuries. And frowned when all he found was unmarred skin… no, quite unmarred, it was actually more sensible to touch than what was normal for him and too pink, almost as if he had scrubbed himself too hard and for too long. Apart from that there was nothing that could tell him why he was shivering when he wasn't supposed to feel cold in the first place except in the direst of circumstances.

"You are awake," said a somewhat familiar voice.

Steve startled and instantly made a motion to grab his shield only to remember that it was not there or anywhere he could see. Not that he had seen much, being too worried about feeling _cold_ of all things. His hands clenched around the blankets, he must be more out-of-it than he had thought if he was being so careless and absentminded, normally he would've been out of this place by now.

"Hey, are you alright?" The man, for it was a man, asked in a worried tone. He also was standing closer, out of immediate reach, but closer. And Steve hadn't noticed. Yup, he was definitely way out of his game today.

"I am fine; there is no need for you to be concerned," he lied and almost cringed at how pathetic his attempt at misdemeanour was; instead of dwelling on that he observed and catalogued the newcomer in his mind. He was young, around his mid-twenties perhaps, tallish but of slight built, muscled but just so. Not a front fighter then, more likely very fast though. He had a mess of black hair, long enough that it reached his eyes, partly covered his ears and caressed the nape of his neck, and the greenest and loneliest eyes that Steve had seen.

His observations were cut short as the young man snorted inelegantly. "You are shivering," the stranger pointed out at his questioning look. Ah, so he was.

"It's nothing," he said but inwardly he was starting to get worried. Why was he shivering? His brow scrunched up as he tried to recall what he had been doing before… before what? What had happened to him? Disjointed pieces of information came to him but they didn't make any sense at all in that fashion. He remembered that had been fighting Hydra all over the map for months and then there was something about a bomb and… and what?

"It's not 'nothing'."

Steve blinked, startled. "What?"

"I said that it's not 'nothing'" the man repeated seriously. He was still in the same position and in the same place, as if he could somehow sense Steve unease.

"What do you mean?"

The black-haired man gave him a long and appraising look, it was exactly the kind of look that had always made Steve bristle, the kind of look men had gave him moments before finding him lacking in some area or all of them. Steve hated those looks. This stranger, however, didn't seem to be measuring his worth, he was searching for something and apparently he had found it.

"First of all, my name is Harry Potter," he positioned a nearby chair next to the bed and waited for Steve to make himself more comfortable before offering his hand in greeting. The super soldier gave him a wary and distrustful look but it was replaced by confidence a moment later. They shook hands firmly but without violence, it was enough for now.

"Steve Rogers."

Harry hummed and crossed his arms over the back of his chair and propped his chin on them. He hoped that his relaxed posture would put the soldier more at ease or else this conversation was going to be a very painful experience for both of them. "Well, first of all, or second of all, you will have to be a bit patient with me, there is a lot to explain and I don't know half of it."

"What do you mean you 'don't know half of it'?" Interrupted the blonde soldier a bit more harshly than required. Harry paid it no mind.

"I mean what I said," he lifted a hand to stem the avalanche of questions or complaints that would follow such a statement. "If my guess is correct and you really are who I think you are, well, that really leaves me floundering, you know. I don't know how to explain this, the only thing I did was find you Captain."

The way Steve eyes lit in recognition at the military title told Harry that he was spot on in his guess. Who would've thought Captain America was more than a comic book? Considering that Harry himself was a wizard maybe he should have.

Steve for his part was terribly confused, now more so. One question at a time, he reminded himself. "Find me? I was not aware of being lost." He hadn't, or had he? He didn't know. Truth was that his memory of those last moments was coming back, but it was a slow process. He remembered the Cube, fighting Red Skull, then coldness and darkness. He shivered but resisted the urge to crawl back under the warmth of the covers. What on Earth had happened?

"You have been lost for a long time Captain," the young man said with no inflection in his voice. A shiver of a completely different nature went down Steve's spine; he didn't like the sound of that. Harry passed a newspaper to the soldier who took it with hands that threatened to start trembling, hands that starting trembling when he read the date of a newspaper he didn't know existed until that precise moment.

_8th August 2011._

Blue eyes, wide as saucers, snapped upwards, he opened his mouth to protest, to call this plot into the light because what he had read couldn't be true, it just _couldn't_. He never got the chance to speak though, as furious blue clashed with compassionate green Steve knew the truth, that this was very real and not a cruel joke or a clever torture technique designed to throw him off his game. For a fleeting moment he wished for this to be one such a plot. But it wasn't, _of course_ it wasn't, the true was printed there in black letters and in Potter's eyes, which still held that compassionate edge. But no pity. Thank God for small mercies, Steve hated being pitied.

"How?" Managed to say Steve, voice hoarse from the force of his emotions.

"How it happened I can only guess on my own but when I found you, by some freak mistake, you were frozen, encased in ice, quite literally I may add." Harry explained blandly, as if finding people trapped in ice was a normal occurrence. "I couldn't leave you there, naturally, so I brought you here and thawed you out."

And the Captain remembered now: the plane, Schmidt, the strange blue Cube disintegrating the Red Skull's body, the bomb still active heading towards New York, beautiful Peggy and his decision to sacrifice himself for his loved ones sake. The promise he couldn't keep.

Tears prickled at his eyes, he tried to contain them like he had done all his life but in the end had to bury his face in his hands to keep his sorrow and shame from spilling over. Harry said nothing and limited himself to grip the soldier shoulder for a few seconds, showing his support and nothing else, after that he merely put away the wrinkled newspaper. Steve was glad for it, he wasn't sure he wouldn't throw up if he had to see the physical proof of his displacement in time again.

He had spent almost seventy years encased in ice, he had slept away sixty nine years of his life, not that he had changed at all since day one, but still! How does one reconcile with that? The world had been changing at an alarming pace even back then, now he was almost afraid to find out how much had really changed since 1942. He breathed deeply and tried to shut down his racing mind, it wasn't working. What would he do now? His war was over, the world had most certainly left him behind, he had no one to protect, no goal to achieve; what use did he have now? True, he still was a soldier, there was that, there would always be that. But he hadn't joined the army to fight just because he could, and at the time he hadn't been able to fight worth a damn, he joined because he believed in fighting for his country and its people. He believed in helping to end the war. It was done, so now what? He didn't know, all his life he had always had a goal to reach, and here he was, floundering because didn't _know_ what to do anymore! What use was a soldier without a war?

"What do I do know?" He asked to nobody in particular. He had forgotten that he wasn't alone so he was surprised when Harry answered.

"You adapt."

Steve looked up, eyes a bit red but otherwise dry. "What do you mean?"

"What you lost, it can't be recovered," Harry started with just the slightest hesitation, "so you start over, you learn and you adapt." _Or you die_, was left unsaid but it was there and Steve could hear it all the clearer for it. Harry knew that it probably wasn't the best way to put it, never mind elegant, but it was _true_. Steve could _feel_ the veracity imbedded in those few words and it struck something deep inside him.

The super soldier peered at him, with curiosity that soon turned into wonder and horror. "You know," he said and it wasn't a question.

Harry smirked and the only thing Steve could see in that gesture was bitter loneliness, the loneliness of being the only one who has experienced something terrible and knowing that nobody else could understand no matter how hard they tried.

"It was different for me and I slept a lot less than you did Captain, but yes, I know." Harry wondered how could he word his experience in a way that the blond soldier was able to grasp. He settled for the simplest way. "Basically, it's a matter of whether you sink or swim, you either do or you don't. Period."

Steve nodded at that, a bit calmer now that rationality had asserted itself. He was a soldier, survival was something he understood well, and barring his personal loss, this could be likened to any other survival test he had passed before. In his mind he knew all of this, it didn't, however, prevent his heart from hurting any less.

Once again he found himself wishing he could get drunk.

* * *

"Sir, w-we found it, sir!"

Nick Fury glared at the new recruit trembling in front of him, his mood souring faster than milk left on the sun, in the middle of summer, in the desert. Fury knew the men and women under his command, it was imperative that he did, which meant that he knew their ins and outs, their little traditions passed from veteran to rookie and every insignificant quirk they had, have or may have. The little tradition of sending rookies to report bad news was old, older than any comparison he would dare make. He had been there too, years ago, when he himself had been a rookie, and as a veteran he sometimes found it a little bit amusing.

Today was not one of those times.

"Well?" He growled impatiently. The rookie gulped and his shaking got worse if possible, fortunately for everyone involved the soldier braved the storm head-on.

"After the quake that uncovered the aircraft we dug it up and it fit the description and sketches left by Mr. Stark. We opened an entrance and went in but..." the soldier fumbled with his words for a few seconds before taking up where his voice had tapered off. Director Fury was going to be livid no matter how he word it, so better get on with it now rather than later. "There was a lot in terms of armament and the deactivated bomb but Captain Rogers was not there sir."

"He was not there?" Fury repeated and pinned the recruit with a glare potent enough to strip paint from walls. "Then where is he soldier? Sightseeing in the ice perhaps?" The trembling man gulped and shook his head in a clear negative. "You were sent to confirm the origin of the aircraft and to retrieve Captain Rogers's body. Now I ask you again: Where. Is. Captain. Roger's. BODY, soldier?"

"I- w-we d-don't know, sir! It was nowhere in the premises! B-but there w-was just one anomaly, sir!" Fury made a wordless gesture for him to _get on with it!_ "The ice had been cut, it... it looked as if something, or someone, had been carved out of it."

Fury paced his office as the report was delivered, thoughts whirling furiously through his analytical mind. This, no matter from which angle he looked at this one, it was a disaster. The Super Soldier Project had remained unparalleled since its inception and abrupt ending and through every attempt to revive it, attempts that had officially ended with the Hulk disaster a few years back. That some unknown person or group of people could've gotten its hands on Captain Rogers, even if it was only the body... it could spell disaster for everyone. S.H.I.E.L.D. didn't work on 'could be' and 'what ifs', they turned the odds in their favour or they had them either controlled or eliminated.

"Anything else?"

"O-only that the scientist said that the carving had been recent and it had something to do with the accumulation of snow. T-they will enclose their conclusions in the written report, sir."

"Very well. Dismissed."

The soldier couldn't have gotten away any faster even if he had run. Later he would drink with his fellow soldiers and proceed to get shitfaced as a reward for successfully passing The Rite.

While the rookie was toasting with his friends about his bravery, director Fury of S.H.I.E.L.D. was seated in his chair, thinking over every little detail of the report and seeing no other conclusion but the totally obvious, that somebody else had found Captain America before them. Wasting no time, Nick Fury started making calls and pulling strings, all the while mulling over which agents would've the best qualifications for a mission of this importance. The man rubbed his temples and growled. This was going to be a major headache, one on par with Stark and Banner, he just knew it.

God, he needed a drink, or a dozen.

* * *

**_To be continued..._**

* * *

_Uploaded: 4/06/2012_


	2. Warming Up

**Title: **_Stand by me__._  
******Summary: **_Somebody else found the frozen Captain America before S.H.I.E.L.D. How would two abnormal and displaced heroes get along? Will their friendship change anything? What difference a better adapted and less uptight Steve Rogers could make? What difference, if any, will Harry make? (What will I do with all these 'what ifs'?)_  
**Words:**_ 5229._

_Warnings, disclaimer, etc, etc, are in the first post._

**AN:** _Gobsmacked, that's exactly the word to describe how I feel. I just can't believe the enormous quantity of people who put this story in their Alerts, or Favourites or who Reviewed! It's awesome! I answered all except those that had their PM disabled or didn't log in. Know that it's all of your fault that this is here today instead of after I turn in a worksheet I have pendind on monday. _

_Thanks to: Kimay, Junkie munkie, leza, obi, bettyboop, ShadowedHand and anons.  
_

_I hope this doesn't disappoint. Harry's past will come along slowly, mostly because a dump of information it's unattractive and very OOC even for my version of Harry. He has no reason to share anything with anyone, even if it's super-amazing Steve, xD  
_

* * *

**2. Warming up.**

An impatient knock from the bedroom door direction snapped both men from the awkward silence that had descended. Biting back a sigh of relief Harry went to retrieve the food he had ordered Kreacher to prepare but had forbidden the elf from delivering. Harry always enjoyed a good laugh when he could, which was not very often lately, but it wasn't in his plans to kill Captain America via heart attack by allowing the old and cranky house-elf inside the room. If he was going to kill someone he'd do it with style, not that he intended to kill anyone, much less Steve Rogers.

Steve was equally glad for the reprieve from the uncomfortable silence. His eyes followed Potter's movement instinctively but his heart wasn't in it. Potter didn't feel like a threat, which, now that he thought about it, was the kind of thing he had been warned extensively about, the whole wolf in a sheep skin ramble. Nevertheless, his instincts had never failed him (with the notable exception of everything remotely woman-ish) so he would sit back and trust his host for now. It didn't hurt that he was intensively curious about the younger man too (1) or that he sorely needed any help he could get if he wanted to survive the future, his new present, whatever. Steve shoved those thoughts away before they could grip him again; he was not in the mood for another existential crisis, not when the last one had barely passed. He was exhausted enough as it was.

"No, I can carry them. I'll leave them outside for you to pick up. For Merlin's sake, go do something else Kreacher!" Harry's barely contained shout reached Steve ears but only one word stuck: _'Merlin?' What the hell..._

Harry turned around, both hands full with a huge tray filled with dishes full to the brim, and if everything he had seen so far was as it seemed, then that was real silver. Steve made to get up but Harry stopped him before he even had the chance to fully seat.

"Stay there, I'm alright, I have this," he said and pushed the door close with his right foot in an impressive show of both balance and acrobatics. Only later would Steve realize that he had forgotten all about the conversation he had eavesdropped.

True to his word Harry made his way with no trouble and flawlessly deposited the tray in the empty bedside table. The soldier, who had followed every movement, ready to catch the tray if it fell, goggled at the layout of dishes in front of him. A full English breakfast, he recalled with a pang of nostalgia. To him it seemed like it was yesterday when Falsworth would complain about the food in the Mess Hall, daydreaming of the moment he would finally go home and describing in painful detail everything he was going to eat, breakfast in particular.

"_Breakfast is the most important meal of the day; this, this atrocity cannot even be considered food!" Falsworth exclaimed in outrage._

"_It's not that bad." Steve certainly had eaten worse. Falsworth gaped. _

"_When this is over you are coming with me, I will show you what a real breakfast looks like," he sniffed imperiously but dug in with as much enthusiasm as everyone else, much to Steve's amusement. He ate another bite of the tasteless gunk but this time he imagined he was eating a full English breakfast with his comrade. It would be nice. _

Steve had to smile at the memory, bittersweet as it was now, like all of his memories. It was then that his stomach decided to remind him that, frozen in ice or not, he had not eaten anything for almost seventy years. It took every ounce of self control in him not to droll, but if Harry amused smile was anything to go by his attempt was met with failure.

"You look like a man who has seen Heaven, its angels and God all at once," said the black-haired man good-naturedly, it was this easy attitude that allowed Steve to crack a shaky smile in spite of his embarrassment and his previous thoughts. He wondered if Harry noticed. The green-eyed man took an empty plate and put a little of everything on it. He turned to his guest. "Serve yourself whatever strikes your fancy Captain."

Steve followed his example and scooped up a bit of everything into his own place, well, _almost_ everything, he didn't think mushrooms had any place at breakfast table. Or anywhere else really. "Please, call me Steve, Captain- Captain it's not..." he trailed off, unable to put his feelings into words. He didn't need to try for the frown on his face said everything his words failed to convey. His friends and comrades, his superiors, Peggy, all of them had called him Captain once upon a time. It had been a matter of pride for him to have gained that rank, but it had also been a nickname of sorts, Steve Rogers, the little nobody from Brooklyn, Captain America. But he wasn't Captain America anymore, was he? He was a man out of time and barely anything else.

"Then you have to call me Harry, it's only fair I think." His only warning was a mischievous smirk and before Steve could blink the other had swiped a sausage from his plate. He could only gape at the action. "Eat or your food may just mysteriously disappear when you're not looking."

"It didn't look quite mysterious from here," the soldier deadpanned after recovering from the shock but he obeyed, arm curled protectively around his food in case of future theft. A mouthful later he couldn't help but hum appreciatively. "This is really good," he complimented. The warm food and the friendly atmosphere immediately helped him relax, the tension of the past hour slowly bleeding out of him.

"I know, and although I prefer to cook my own food Kreacher is awesome in the kitchen."

"Kreacher?" What a weird name. He really hoped things hadn't changed enough to warrant such names. That would be tragic.

"A servant of the family."

Ah. Steve blinked. Well, that actually explained some things. Like the financial status of his host, about which he had his own suspicions already so, unless everything was far more different than what he believed, Potter must have quite a bit of money. For starters, servants were not cheap, but good ones that stayed with a family for long enough to be considered part of said family? Those were downright expensive as well as rare. He absently munched on a jam covered toast, mindful of eating slowly. He didn't want a stomach-ache so early in the game. While it was good to know that he wasn't eating Potter out of his budget but that wasn't the really important question. What was he going to do after Harry's hospitality run out? That was the question that needed an answer. Harry's previous advice was solid, he had to learn and adapt (or die, but that wasn't even on the table for consideration). The problem? He had no idea of where to start or the resources with which to start a new life.

And then there were other, even more difficult to answer, questions: like how had Harry found him? He had mentioned a 'freak' mistake, but what kind of mistake landed one in the middle of the Arctic? And even if that was the case, he had been buried under the ice, how had Harry known where to find him? Steve knew he was missing facts, facts that he wouldn't get unless he asked.

He took another mouthful of eggs to hide the grimace that flashed through his face at the thought. It was an unavoidable truth that Steve Rogers sucked at asking for things he needed or wanted or both. It was a mixture of having been born into a poor family with nothing but love to offer him, which forced him to be independent and as self-sufficient as he could be early on, and being constantly put down by everyone else for most of said life, which made him unwilling to ask for things that wouldn't be given to him anyway. After being rejected too many times and with little space to manoeuvre, Steve chose the third option: to bludgeon his way into the things he really wanted, like enlisting into the army or getting inside a concentration camp where his only friend was being held captive.

That probably was the worst way to do things now but he knew of no other way so... He squared his shoulders and lifted his eyes, prepared to deliver the question that was gnawing at him while knowing that he would come off as rude, maybe alienate the only person he has had contact in seventy years...

He was not prepared to meet the amused visage of one Harry Potter; the man looked pinched, as if he was barely holding his laugher inside. He made a 'go on' gesture with his hands but whatever he was trying to convey with it obviously wasn't received.

"What?" asked Steve defensively, a frown of confusion etched on his face.

"No-nothing, it j-just..." Harry paused, took a calming breath and tried again "It's just that you've been glaring daggers at the poor plate for almost five minutes. It made me wonder about what kind of offense my cutlery could've done to you?"

"Oh." Steve blushed and ducked his head. Well, that was embarrassing.

He didn't have long to feel mortified though, because as fast as it came, Harry's sudden mirth left him; green eyes turned hard and deadly serious as he pinned the uncomfortable man with a Look. If the bond soldier harboured any doubts about the black-haired man's involvement in some sort of fight, maybe a war (he wasn't naive enough to believe that his war would've been the last one, but how he wished it had been), those doubts they were gone now, squashed by the weight of that look that somehow made him feel as if he was back to being a fresh recruit, a lamb ready for the slaughterhouse.

"I know you have questions and know that I will answer them truthfully," informed Harry before he paused to gauge the attentive and almost earnest expression on the blond face. "Keep in mind, however, that the knowledge I will disclose to give you the answers you seek it's probably the best guarded secret in the past four hundred years." Well, the 'best guarded secret' may be a stretch of the truth but totally worth if only to see the eagerness turn into utter seriousness that mirrored his own. Good, the last thing Harry wanted was for Steve to blab about magic and end up memoriless in a ditch somewhere. "If I believed that lying to you would be better in the end, I would," he admitted without shame. "But I won't."

A beat of silence passed. "...Why?"

That was the question of the thousand galleons, wasn't it? Harry had asked himself the same question over a thousand times in the two weeks it took him to remove the man from his icy prison. Why not lie, why bother? Harry had enough in his plate without having to deal with an out-of-place and out-of-time soldier from the untold bits of World War II. There were many reasons detailing why he shouldn't bother, primarily because it wasn't his problem, but like always in his case, logic lost. The reasons for _that_ were various. Firstly, because of his trice-damned hero-complex that apparently hadn't died the bloody death he had believed. But mostly it was because he saw a bit of himself in the older man; he felt a kinship towards the Captain he hadn't realized he missed until the possibility of losing it made itself known in the form of a very cold feeling in the pit of his stomach. It was ridiculous, they weren't friends, they had never seen each other before and therefore it shouldn't matter to him if Steve walked out of his life without recollection of ever being there; the man would recover, he was a soldier and a good one at that. Problem was, it _did_ matter to Harry, not only because of the moral repercussions but because he hadn't felt that kind of kinship with anyone since he defeated Voldemort.

It made Harry feel like the pathetic and love starved child he once was. It was not a place he cared to be again but alas, that exactly where he was sitting. Not that he would admit any of that to a virtual stranger. Maybe someday Harry would tell Steve everything, the things that had happened in his life and that had twisted him into the parody of a human being that he was, the things that eventually landed him in solitude, away from both worlds and part of none. That day was not today.

"Because I want to," was the honest but glaringly incomplete answer.

There was a pregnant pause in which they merely stared at each other, willing the other to back off, to give in. None did. Finally the Captain sighed and nodded his head in acceptance and what could possibly classify as understanding. Even though new questions burned at him, Steve wasn't as hard-headed as most soldiers he'd worked with back in his time, he knew that there was far more behind those simple words than what they admitted to, but he was also perceptive enough to know that any attempt at forcing the information from the back-haired man would land him nowhere, or what was more probable, on the streets. He desperately wanted answers, true, but he couldn't afford the luxury of antagonizing the only person he knew on this timeline.

Established the fact that there were questions and that they were going to be answered honestly, Steve decided to cut to the chase.

"How did you find me?"

Harry's lips twisted into an amused gesture that was almost a smile but not quite. "Straight to the most difficult question, yes?" Steve merely shrugged his shoulders, unrepentant, and waited. Still sporting some amusement Harry went over to an abandoned backpack and retrieved a strange device that he dropped into the wary Captain America's hand. "This is what took me to you."

'This' turned out to be a little, perfectly round object, no bigger than a baseball ball and no more impressive at first glance. It was black in colour and incredibly smooth except for a myriad of minuscule buttons, each one coloured different from the next. Steve held the device with the kind of caution one would give a ticking bomb. Fortunately for him he knew how to handle delicate objects, something that was sorely needed in an artist, so he managed to hold the thing without pressing any of its buttons. Up close the device didn't look any more impressive than from a distance only... Steve strained his ears, yes, there it was, a soft humming sound that came from the... eh, what was it anyway?

"What is this?" Asked Steve bemusedly, still listening to the oddly relaxing hum it released.

"It's a prototype of a magical tracking device," Harry said in a matter-of-fact voice that didn't betray any of his thoughts on the matter and did nothing to spare Steve from the shock that hit him like lighting.

The ball slipped from suddenly numb fingers, Steve reacted on instinct to catch the tracking device before it hit the empty dishes on his lap and released an explosion or something equally nefarious. He stopped dead on his tracks when he saw it hovering of its own accord mere millimetres from the plate. No, not from its own accord, it was Potter doing, who had produced a wooden stick from somewhere and was levitating the object, Potter who had his eyes fixed on him, waiting for a reaction. Steve gulped and stomped down the sudden fear and a little bit of childish excitement that was gripping his heart tightly. He couldn't afford such feelings right now. So magic existed, ok, great, wonderful, he could deal with that as he had dealt with odder things, Red Skull and a certain Cube to name two.

So magic, right-o... magic existed and apparently few people were aware of it. That had to be the secret Harry had mentioned. Steve certainly hoped so for he wasn't sure his mind would survive being short-circuited again so soon.

"Magic?" He knew he sounded stupid, the evidence was still floating in front of him, but he had to be sure and, ironically, his trust in Harry had only been cemented with this stunt. He wasn't a liar himself but Steve knew liars and you didn't get people to believe you if you didn't tell believable lies. Magic was so outlandish that it just couldn't be anything but true, ridiculous as it sounded even to him. That or the technology had advanced far more than he wanted to believe. He took note of that but waited impatiently for Harry's answer.

"Yes, magic exists." Harry relaxed a bit and levitated his prototype to his free hand. It seemed that whatever Harry had been searching for in Steve expression he found it for he continued to explain. "A long time ago magic was an important part of everyday life. Then shit happened" Steve almost face-palmed "and every community reacted by burying themselves so deeply that magic, nowadays, is no more than a myth to most."

"As you see, I am magical. I have, however, left my own community..." Harry trailed off, eyes sad and pained, his mind miles away. He blinked and the present returned just as the past faded away once more. "There was a war and afterwards... well, suffice to say that by the time I woke up from my own stunt with stasis the world had moved on without me, so I left."

"But idleness was destroying me so I decided to do something fun." Here Harry quirked a mischievous smile. "I became a hunter."

Steve, who had been listening intently to what little information Harry was sharing, frowned in confusion. "Hunter?"

Harry hummed an affirmative. "Mostly of lost treasures and lore," at Steve continued confusion he added: "you know, the kind of things that haven't been seen in centuries, things of legend and such, like Excalibur."

"Excalibur is real?" Blurted out a wide-eyed Steve before flushing bright red. Well, who could blame him? He, like probably everyone else in the world, had heard about the legendary sword. It didn't help that he'd been an avid reader of Knight Tales in his youth.

"I'm pretty sure it is but I haven't looked into it." Harry said and added something that sounded suspiciously a lot like 'too close to home' under his breath. Steve wisely decided to keep his mouth shut on that matter. "But you wanted to know how I got to you, didn't you?"

Steve nodded with the barest hint of reluctance. He had asked about that and he wanted answers, of course, but not even the super soldier could deny the childish delight he felt at the thought that magic was existed, that all those stories he had read as a child could've happened, once upon a time. If he had questions before, it was nothing compared to now. However Harry was right so he relented. Hopefully he would've time to ask other, less important but no less interesting, questions later.

The round device that Harry said was supposed to track magic was being held, none to gently, in long and pale hands. Harry had started working on the prototype after a particularly difficult day filled with dead-ends and disappointments. He clearly remembered the irritation at being denied access to some very important archives he needed to view, but that was practically the norm so he shouldn't have been so frustrated. Normally he wouldn't be, he'd rather return once it was dark and read to his heart's content. In this case that wasn't possible though, as the Catholic Church was very much aware of magic and heavily protected against it. Sadly, without the information he sorely needed, he was forced to abandon the hunt for the Seal (2).

That was not the first time he had reached a dead-end (many legends were actually just that, legends) but it certainly was the first time somebody had managed to block him intentionally. That was how, in his anger and frustration, he decided to create something that would be able to track what he wanted to find even if someone else decided not to share their information.

Creating the tracker ended up being just as complicated and difficult as the whole process to get an interview with the Pope had been, not nearly as impossible though. But Harry Potter was nothing if not stubborn so, instead of taking another hunt to distract himself from the Potter and Evans business and his own treacherous mind, Harry poured all his considerable ingenuity into his project. It was almost seven months later when he finished his first prototype, the same one he had in his hands right now.

Had everything gone according to the plan, the tracker should've connected to the magic of Earth and start looking from there. Sadly, it hadn't worked quite that way. It connected to Earth, alright, but to Earth as a whole, not just the magic. It can be said that it worked just as it was meant to work, with the added problem that instead of tracking only the unnatural or abnormal concentrations of stationary _magic_ (as opposed to 'living' magic, which is the magic inside a living body, be it human or creature. Even if tracking hidden communities could be fun it wasn't what he was aiming for) the device connected to everything unnatural, abnormal or problematic on Earth. That meant that everything muggle was suddenly included in the equation.

Because there was no better way to test it, or if there was Harry was not in the mood to look for it, he had pressed a random button, a nice, green-coloured one. Apparently an aircraft buried in the middle of the Arctic was problematic enough for his device to pick upon, as he discovered when he appeared over two hundred feet from the ground. That had been the first and only test as of now. It could've been worse, he supposed. He could've been transported over an active volcano or into a den of basilisks or something equally nasty.

Harry made a mental note to find a way for the tracker to inform him of his destination before he was thrown head-first in there.

"So, each one of those buttons is a destination?" Steve asked, torn between being awed at the object and horrified that someone could be so careless. Not that he wasn't grateful, Harry's actions had lead to him being amongst the living again after all. Still, it didn't change the fact that Harry could've ended in worse places than a land buried in ice and surrounded by icy water.

"They are," Harry confirmed and turned the tracker in his hands for the nth time. He sent a trickle of magic into it, soon the humming sound amplified and the ball started to shrink, one by one the buttons disappeared until only a tiny black ball the size of a golf ball remained. He pocketed it. "There are more, of course," he looked at Steve in the eye and cracked a bitter smile. "The problems of this planet are countless."

It had been like that in the 40's too, so Steve had no other choice but to agree, as depressing as the thought was.

"How would you survive a fall that long anyway?" the Captain asked, not willing to inspect this world troubles just yet. Suddenly his blue eyes lit with something very like childish glee. "Can you fly too?"

Harry blinked once, twice, then, much to his manliness horror, he giggled. He managed to cover it up with a cough but the glint in Steve's eyes told him that it hadn't happened soon enough.

"No..." he cleared his throat. "No, just no, not without a broom and I didn't have mine with me that day."

Steve resisted the urge to go into _yet another_ tangent about the 'broom' comment. The magical portion of the world was full of oddities it seemed. He was definitely going to be revisiting all those old books he had read as a child. Later, he decided. Instead he waited for Harry to collect his memories. Harry didn't disappoint.

_Harry didn't know what, exactly, he had been expecting from his experiment. What he hadn't been expecting was to appear in the middle of somewhere very, __**very**__ cold and a fair distance in the air to boot. He didn't even have his broom with him. Not that it would've been of any use considering the violence of the winds, with his luck it would've helped in killing him faster. Fortunately, or unfortunately depending on who you asked, Harry had been in similar situations many times before so he knew how to keep a clear head. _

_He discarded apparition immediately. As useful as the wizarding method of transportation was, Harry hated it passionately. It always made him sick and he couldn't do it without proper concentration. He wasn't going to be able to visualize his destination and concentrate while falling to his death. _

_Without delay Harry started to cast spells on himself to slow his descent. It didn't work, at least not nearly as well as he expected for he was still falling to his death much too fast. His scowl deepened as he casted another warming charm and another Aresto Momentum (3) on himself. Okay, backup plan. Harry kept casting as many spells on himself as he could, it still didn't stop his fall but it slowed his descent enough to react just when he needed and not a second later. _

"_Bombarda Maxima," he shouted against the icy wind, wand pointed towards the rapidly approaching ice. _

_The effect was instantaneous. The explosion rocked the ice but most importantly, the concussive force of it counteracted the speed of his fall, it still sent him flying into another direction but the force of his collision with the ice was merely painful instead of deadly. He rolled on the snow and skidded a few feet before stopping altogether. In spite of the soul searing and bone eating cold Harry remained there for a few seconds in order to regain his lost breath and allow his frantic heart to slow down. Damn, that had been intense, even more that running away from animated corpses (those Egyptians had no imagination whatsoever). In the end it wasn't the cold that forced him to move but the tremors and ominous cracking sounds that the ice under him was making. _

'_Uh-oh,' Harry thought as he jumped to his feet. Just in time to see a crack as wide as both his arms coming straight to where he was standing. He got out of the way not a second too soon. All around him the ice was cracking and shifting and it was everything Harry could do not to fall into what would be a very wet death. 'How was I supposed to know that there was water down there?' The black-haired man cried in the safety of his head, he didn't need an avalanche on top of everything. _

_Finally he managed to jump over to a small iceberg, barely big enough to hold his weight, but safer than the rest of the still moving ice and the surging water. Harry applied a sticking charm on his feet and waited as it was the only thing he could do. After what seemed like an eternity things quieted and the dark waters stilled. He should have known it was too good to be the end of it. Harry was moving his numb feet, trying to regain some semblance of feeling in them, when something exploded in the middle of the newly formed lake, sending water in every direction, including his. It was a soaked, freezing and disgruntled Harry Potter who first laid eyes on the giant iceberg that contained an enormous, black Aircraft that looked much like an alien bird in the wizard opinion._

_Incorrigible curious thing that he was, Harry couldn't resist the temptation of getting closer, after casting like a thousand drying and warming charms on his body and clothes, of course. The aircraft was impressive like few things he had seen before, all solid black and elegant angles. Using his wand to propel his tiny iceberg Harry surrounded the floating mountain of ice, but it was when he reached the nose of the plane that he froze in surprise, right before he cursed._

"_Oh, you have to be shitting me!" Harry exclaimed, wide eyes riveted to the trapped figure inside the ice, the very human figure that looked as if he had been propelled from the cockpit before pilot (?) and plane froze together. But Harry wasn't quite thinking about that, he was too busy cursing Karma in his head, because this had to be Karma's way of getting back at him for stealing that cartoon about the bald kid (4) from Teddy like four years ago. He had returned it, damn it!_

_Still too damn curious for his own good Harry approached the giant icicle and sent a wave of magic into it. Imagine his surprise when his magic told him that the frozen man wasn't dead but merely sleeping. Any intention of exploring the black monstrosity left him right then and there, at the same time his inner hero reared its ugly head. Harry scowled at his inner idiot, I mean, hero, but climbed his way up all the same, intent of freeing the man, whoever he may be. _

_Harry Potter was many things, but heartless was not yet one of those._

"Thank you."

Harry scowl vanished as he was yanked from his memories. "Pardon?"

"Thank you," repeated Steve. "For saving me."

"Ah, well, I'm sure somebody would've found you, someday..." the black-haired man muttered, a dark blush staining his pale cheeks.

"Maybe," the soldier conceded, "but it was you who did and who rescued me, even when you clearly didn't have to, so thank you."

Harry blinked, as if confused by the praise, but looked away before Steve could identify the miriad of emotions churning in those emerald eyes. Then, without warning Harry stood and started to pile the empty plates on the forgotten tray.

"You should rest." Harry cut any possible inquiry with almost clinical precision. "It's summer yet you are cold. Your body hasn't recovered from the time spent on the ice, so you should rest."

Without further ado the wizard vacated the bedroom, leaving a bewildered Steve alone to ponder the oddity that was Harry Potter and his own screwed-up life. He had the funny feeling that he wouldn't get bored any time soon.

It was moments before he fell asleep that Steve remembered something Harry had said before. He was wide awake in seconds.

"Wait a second, _Merlin_ _was_ _real?_"

* * *

_**To be continued...**_

* * *

_**(1)** I looked Steve's birthday up. He was born on 4th July 1922 and he was frozen on 1944 (in the movie), which makes him twenty two years old. I changed that. :) Harry is currently 24 and Steve 26. And if you are thinking that Harry's age is wrong, then you are right. He should be 31, how that happened, hmm? On purpose I assure you._

_**(2)** He is referring to the Seal of Solomon._

_**(3)** All the spells mentioned here exists in the HP books (I think)._

_**(4)** Harry is referring to "Avatar: the last airbender". For those who don't know, the protagonist of the cartoon, Aang, is found frozen in an iceberg. _

_Uploaded: 7/06/2012._


	3. Sketching the Future

**Title: **_Stand by me__._  
******Summary: **_Somebody else found the frozen Captain America before S.H.I.E.L.D. How would two abnormal and displaced heroes get along? Will their friendship change anything? What difference a better adapted and less uptight Steve Rogers could make? What difference, if any, will Harry make? (What will I do with all these 'what ifs'?)_  
**Words: **_5045.  
_

_Warnings, disclaimer, etc, etc, are in the first post._

**AN:** _Not a lot of action yet. This first chapters are a bit introductory so both of them can built some common ground as friends, or something like that. Basically they are discovering things they have in common and such. But don't fret! The action will come, or at least S.H.I.E.L.D. will. For now the focus is on these guys though._

_I hope I haven't made Steve too overemotional or something. He is going through a difficult time but well, I don't want to overdo it. Be nice and tell me! :)  
_

_Thanks ShadowedHand, anon and Junkie munkie  
_

* * *

**3. Sketching the future.**

Agent Chang (1) sighed for the umpteenth time in less than an hour and rubbed his tired eyes, knocking his glasses askew when he forgot about them.

"Shit!" The curse sailed from his lips awkwardly and he cringed in the emptiness of his workplace. He didn't like cursing, neither hearing it nor doing it himself, but he was rapidly losing patience with his newest assignment.

Director Fury had charged into his tiny office late last night, when his shift was almost over, dumped a file and a string of codes on his lap and ordered him to get to work immediately. Agent Chang had taken one look at the director's livid face and scrambled to obey faster than one of Stark's sport cars could run. Now the clock read 4:00 am and agent Chang was ready to cry in a mixture of boredom, frustration and exhaustion. He did none of that, instead he put the glasses back on and returned his attention to the stream of data he was supposed to check over in the hopes of finding anything abnormal.

The data he was reviewing was the result of one of the many devices S.H.I.E.L.D. had in its possession. This one in particular was stationed in a small base in the Arctic and was wired to pick up a wide variety of energy signatures. Why on Earth there was a base in a godforsaken place like the Arctic, agent Chang didn't know and didn't care to know. Not knowing was one of the best ways of staying alive while working on a place like S.H.I.E.L.D, fresh recruits were informed of that fact the first day and everyone with at least a quarter of a brain did well to remember the advice. Chang had been working as a tech specialist for nine years and he liked to consider himself within the intelligent portion of the agency employees, so he accepted his missions and didn't ask for more information than what was given to him.

This time the only thing he knew was that this data went back five months (apparently the machines did a sweep every six months. Unfortunately, something had gone wrong before the scheduled date and a more human approach was needed), data that he had to check over with a fine comb and he better write down any little detail that stood out, even if it was a barely there peak in the temperature.

There were a lot of those too.

The agent scrolled down another page and scribbled another meaningless line before repeating the process. This assignment was painfully mind-numbing but agent Chang was used to boring and apparently inconsequential tasks, he was even more used to going without sleep for far longer than what was considered healthy in... everywhere really. Thinking back on Fury's urgency that was probably why he was chosen. Agent Chang was far from the only efficient insomniac in S.H.I.E.L.D. (most of them were) but he sure as hell was one of the few where you could find diligence and discretion as well.

But none of that mattered in the end. He had a job to do and he would achieve his objective before crashing in some quiet corner to recover. Still... he looked mournfully at his empty mug and at the equally empty coffee pot. Five months was a long time to review and it would take him at least a few days to go over all of it. Agent Chang grabbed his cup and made a beeline for the nearest rest room. He loved his job and always strived to do it well, but there was no way in the nine circles of Hell that he would continue working coffeeless. _No. Way_.

* * *

Steve woke up with a start, a strangled cry caught in his throat, hands reaching forwards in a futile attempt to grab a shadow of a past long gone. Blue, unfocused eyes stared up ahead, seeing nothing but the fading strands of a nightmare, no, not a nightmare, a memory. Steve blinked and his eyes cleared of shadows but a familiar and unwelcomed itch started to burn behind them. Despite being alone in the dark room, the blond-haired man covered his eyes with an arm and bit his tongue in an attempt to stifle the howl of anger mixed with hopelessness than may've been a sob if Steve was inclined to cry. But Steve hadn't cry in a long time. Crying never helped, not back then and certainly not now.

Following a routine he had established right after the first nightmare, Steve took deep and controlled breaths until his heart rate slowed down to acceptable levels. When he finally stopped feeling like he was being suffocated by the conjurations of his own panicked mind, he started on some simple memory exercises, recalling with precision what he had done the day before, what new things he had learned, where and when exactly he was. It was a tedious process and it took Steve almost half an hour every time before the lurking shadows dissipated and he was ready to face another day of sitting idly in bed and doing nothing besides reading.

Steve, like any good soldier, hated bed rest with passion. A feeling echoed heartily by Harry but the green-eyed man made good points when he pointed out that his body was weak and in no condition to move around overly much, that and _'maybe he could use a couple of days to learn a bit about the world?'_ So that was why he spent the past three days holed up in his new room reading a few books Harry had fetched for him. He didn't see much of Potter afterwards, he could hear him around sometimes and he popped in for a few minutes every day, but otherwise Steve was left mostly alone. Which was fine with him, he didn't need anyone, no matter how friendly, as a witness to his anxiety, confusion and helplessness while he tried to pick up the scattered pieces of his own self.

His food was delivered by what he could only count as magic and he had his own adjacent bathroom, anything else he required he could ask the creepy, cranky, little creature named Kreacher.

Suffice to say that Steve had not called the servant, not once.

In the end, the bed rest and isolation hadn't been as bad as he had feared. Sure, thoughts and questions about his own past would crop up at the most inopportune moments and sometimes not even the history books helped him in stopping the flow of painful memories. In those moments he would pick up one of the other books, the smaller, flimsy books with titles like: "So you are a technophobe?", "An introduction to technology for dummies" and "Useful appliances every house MUST have". Those books never failed to short-circuit his brain before he even finished the prologue and reached the first chapter. He had even tried looking for something familiar in the index once, he had naively thought that 'phone' was a safe choice. Instead he got the picture of a little, rectangular box that looked nothing like a phone. The description said it was a 'cell phone', or in other words a portable phone, but that made no sense to Steve at all. Phones were big and cumbersome, how could you put one inside something so little? And what did cells had to do with anything?

Finally, when his brain couldn't take any more beatings, Steve would pick up the little, blank notebook and pencil Harry had also provided him with. Then he would perch on the rather big windowsill and draw everything within his direct sight, and what a sight the garden was. It was good practice for his stiff fingers and something he loved and could lose himself completely into. The knowledge that something had not changed, that there was something he had not lost... words could never express the overwhelming feeling that would overtake him in those moments, so intense that his eyes burned even if he never let those tears fall.

Today would be different though. For three days he had stayed inside his room, internalizing the mind-blowing knowledge of suddenly being in the future and letting his body recover in relative peace. It was enough. He was actually surprised that he had been able to sit still for so long but that time was in the past (he cringed at that). He was starting to feel jittery and that was enough of a clue for him to get a move on.

Steve threw the covers away from his body and was on his feet in one fluid movement. He curled his toes on the soft creamy carpet and rejoiced in the simple fact of not being cold. He didn't feel warm like he should, considering the sweltering temperature of English summers, but it was a big improvement all the same. He took a quick shower and put his borrowed jeans and long-sleeved t-shirt on, tied the laces of a comfortable kind of footwear called sneakers, before making a beeline for desk where his breakfast was waiting for him. He didn't know how the creepy, er... how the little servant knew exactly when he awoke but every day the food would appear within the first ten minutes of awareness and it would remain warm until he ate it. In all honestly, it had almost given him a heart attack the first time he saw a tray with warm food appear mere feet from his prone body. He had refused to touch it until Harry came and explained that and some other facts that were normal for a magical house.

He still was trying to wrap his head around talking portraits. As in, portraits magicked to move and talk, like movies but not quite like them either. Fortunately his room was void of them or he wouldn't have gotten a wink of sleep knowing that some_thing_ was watching him, even if it wasn't alive. Between technology and magic Steve didn't know which was worse. Don't get him wrong, he had nothing against magic itself, he rather liked the idea of it, but the double cultural shock was wearing on him and he hadn't left his room once! Worse, now that he knew that magic did indeed exist, he couldn't for the life of him differentiate between the two because the new developments in technology were like magic to him, new and indecipherable.

But back to the present, Steve ignored the uncomfortable feeling he got every time he thought about magic in the vicinity of his food, and ate. Once finished he piled the empty plates on the tray and left them there, knowing they would be taken care of even if the idea of having someone else clean after his mess rubbed him the wrong way. He still hesitated a bit in front of the tray before shrugging; he picked up the notebook and pencil and exited the bedroom, softly closing the door behind his back.

The stone hallway, with its many (moving!) portraits, tasteful tapestries, random suit of armour and antiques was exactly what Steve had pictured after three days of inspecting his own room where everything, from the four-post bed with its velvet drapes to the iron chandelier that hung from the ceiling, seemed like it came straight from the Middle Ages. The clash between the knowledge that he was in the future and what his eyes were seeing made his head swim.

Suddenly unsure, Steve looked around. Harry had told him he was free to roam his home, that everything he didn't want the soldier to see would be locked and warded, although Steve had no idea what the later meant. That didn't help him decide where to go. Shrugging to himself Steve wandered off to his right, hoping against hope that he would not get irrevocably lost.

Steve was hopelessly lost. He had discovered in the first five minutes of his aimless wandering not to use the portraits as a location point for they seemed to enjoy moving around, jumping from frame to frame almost as much as he enjoyed his career of choice. Most of them weren't even useful as guides. Actually, they seemed to be enjoying his plight more than just a little bit and Steve was starting to suspect they were responsible for it in the first place. The lost soldier turned around another corridor and his eyes immediately found a double door, twice as tall as he was and carved masterfully. Relieved at coming across something new he pushed it open. Whatever he had been expecting it wasn't the view of what had to be the biggest private library he had ever laid his eyes upon. Forgetting all about his intention of finding the gardens, Steve stepped into the glorious world of knowledge.

Whereas before he aimlessly wandered the stone hallways now he wandered the narrow and dimly lighted corridors between tall bookshelves, index finger casually stroking the spine of many interesting books, some written in languages he couldn't hope to understand and some which were so old that the titles had faded into oblivion. By chance, or maybe he had followed the light, Steve stepped into an open space next to two huge, arched windows that allowed the light to stream through the partially opened curtains that covered them. The space was in the form of a semicircle and most of it was occupied by heavy oak tables and matching chairs that managed to seem comfortable in spite of the rigid curves and angles of the wood. Next and in between the windows there were spread big, old armchairs that looked and probably were comfortable enough to sleep on. Everything, from the rich purple of the armchair's upholstery to the wispy material that made the curtains was expensive enough to make Steve's head spin. Never mind the fact that the entire place (mansion, palace, castle, he didn't know) would look right at home in a museum.

"You look lost, child." Instead of jumping like he felt tempted to do, the fair-haired soldier whirled around, feet poised in a self-defence stance and notebook lifted in a ridiculous attempt at... something, he honestly had no idea what he planned to do with it. "Oh, a soldier! How delightful! It has been a while since I have been visited by one."

"I'm not lost," he refuted, looking around for the voice. "I know where I am."

"I did not mean that kind of lost, dear." The voice said in fond exasperation and added, "I am up here, boy."

Steve looked up and came eye to eye with a portrait he had obviously missed. It hung exactly in between the arched windows and at least a foot over his head. It was also older than all the others paintings he had seen during his wanderings as attested by the fading colours of the canvas and worn frame. The lady in the portrait was garbed in a dated dress from a time period he couldn't even begin to guess, Renaissance maybe. He spotted the nameplate under the frame: Lady Charlotte Alice Potter; it didn't have a birth date or a death date.

"In my time it was considered rude to stare," Steve blushed and diverted his eyes like he had been burned. "Moreover, it was a show of poor manners not to introduce oneself."

"I'm Steven Rogers," not knowing what to do with himself (you couldn't kiss a painting hand) Steve bowed slightly. "It's a pleasure to meet you ma'am."

"That's much better," she approved. "My name, as you already know, is Lady Charlotte."

"But back to my previous point, you look lost." The portrait reiterated and Steve once more got the feeling that she wasn't quite talking about his physical location.

"I was looking for the gardens and I, well, I got lost." Lady Charlotte lifted one eyebrow in a regal way that clearly stated that she wasn't buying his bullshit. He fidgeted but didn't add anything else. Because, honestly, he really, really didn't want to discuss his situation with a strap of painted cloth spelled to talk and move, not matter how realistic it was. She seemed to get the message because she sighed and relented in her creepy staring.

"The room connected to this one by that door," she pointed to her left, "has a stunning view of our current Lord gardens," '_Lord?'_ repeated a surprised Steve in his mind, "which are said to be worthy of being painted by DaVinci himself. I still can believe the runt became so famous," the Lady added under her breath, answering Steve's question about her timeline.

The soldier bowed again. "Thank you for your help, ma'am."

Lady Charlotte nodded imperiously at him, still muttering viciously under her breath about troublesome brats who should've known better than to steal the dresses of their neighbours to use as a canvas. What a mess that had been! And she, as the older sister had been the one responsible to solve the problem. At that point the woman dissolved into incomprehensible muttering.

Steve hurried out of the library and didn't look back.

The adjacent room Lady Charlotte had pointed out was, once again, a dizzying mixture of different periods in history. The walls were made of the same light brown stone than the rest of what he was now reasonably sure was a castle. One wall was entirely made out of elegant windows that opened up to a wide balcony; the balcony itself overlooked a truly beautiful garden. The opposite wall had a huge, decorated fireplace with photographs, what he assumed was a radio (although he couldn't begin to guess the function of all those buttons) and other knickknacks on the mantelpiece. In front of it there was a round, low table surrounded by two comfortable looking armchairs and a large sofa. The remaining walls were filled with bookshelves that held a mixture of books, likely taken from the library next door, and a wide variety of games, a few he even recognized. Streamed around the room were more armchairs and near them little tables with lamps and enough space to put something else. Everything was decorated with warm colours, dark reds, burnt oranges, muted yellows, creams and the dark brown of polished wood.

It was a strange but welcomed change from the medieval time period. Besides the tasteful decoration, the room was different because it felt lived in. All the other doors he had opened in his exploration had led to beautiful rooms fit for nobility but all of them had felt cold and empty. Not this one though. Steve looked around for a bit until he walked over the windows and opened one of them on a whim, letting the warm air breeze by.

It was weird, Steve thought. He was struck in a time not his own, feeling completely inadequate and out of his depth, but this moment, right now, was nice, peaceful. He thought that it may be nice if it could last a while longer. Without really looking, Steve grabbed the first book out of the bookshelf closer to the window, the only identification being the number 2 depicted on its spine. He opened it and froze. It was not the solid black-on-white of the printed letter that greeted him but the soft, hesitating traces made by a pencil and guided by an inexperienced hand. He wanted to close the sketchpad, he should've closed the damned thing, but he didn't. There was something in the expression, half madness half bone-crushing anguish, of the sketched man that just tugged at Steve's heartstrings. (2)

He turned the page. It was a house, plain looking and totally unimpressive except for the flowers in the garden and the number 4 on the front that had been viciously scratched on the resilient paper. The next was a kid's playground. A park. A school. A public library, and now Steve knew where these building were located: Surrey, England. More buildings followed, each drawing better detailed than the previous one. Then there was a bedroom, small, clustered with trash and sad, with bars on the window and a broken cage on the desk, hopelessness hung around every trace left by the pencil.

Steve kept turning the pages, marvelling in silence at the improvements in the technique. The first drawings were simple, mere lines that intersected at some points to form a picture that lacked the substance needed to make it real. Shadows started to make an appearance, slowly deepening the designs, adding volume, reality to everything. Then the backgrounds became more complicated, more intricate and everything started to come to life. And then it changed. It seemed that the artist (Harry?) had gotten bored with the landscapes so he turned his attention to the people. The first three weren't bad but they were rather ridiculous and a bit grotesque, almost cartoonish in nature. Apparently they were an exception for the rest was more close to reality. Steve kept turning pages and noted with interest the improvement in the portraits.

It wasn't until he reached a particularly sticking drawing that Steve remembered himself and realized what he was doing. The drawing depicted a parade, or something similar, with frenzied people in cloaks, some shouting, some crying and some staring in unabashed adoration at the raised platform in the middle. There was nothing on it besides a sheep, a crucified sheep. Steve would've taken the illustration as a sudden interest in Christian Religion but two things prevented that course of action. Firstly, the traces left by the pencil were deep and a bit too rough, they were angry, more than that, furious. By itself that reason wasn't enough, but along with the second point it made horrible sense. The sheep had a scar shaped like lightning bolt on its forehead, something he had caught a glance on Harry one day, when the man had brushed his bangs aside for a second. It was a remarkable scar and so Steve had remembered.

This sketch reminded him too much of a dark time in which he had thought of himself as nothing more than a performing monkey and not the soldier he was supposed to be. The memory was a bitter one and not even the knowledge that he was giving hope to the populace could change the fact that he had felt useless and worthless.

Steve closed the sketchbook with a resounding snap, still half-lost in memory-lane but no less horrified at the breach of privacy he had just committed. Drawing was like writing in many ways and what he had done was the equivalent of reading someone's diary behind their backs. He felt like a jerk.

"Thank you. For stopping, I mean." Harry's voice was tight with barely contained emotions, too many to identify any of them. Steve closed his eyes, cheeks burning with embarrassment and shame. A stupid jerk that got caught with his hands on the cookie jar like a naughty boy.

"I'm sorry, I... I didn't mean to look, or to keep looking, but they are good, like really good and I guess got a bit carried away..." Steve returned the sketchbook to the shorter man who took it with hands that were shaking barely but enough to be visible. The hidden distress in his until now unflappable host eyes only served to make Steve madder at himself.

"It was never about being good, but thanks for the compliment," the words were curt and clipped.

Realization dawned on Steve then. Harry hadn't started to draw because he discovered a passion or because he had talent; he had taken up drawing in order to vent some unnamed emotion he couldn't release in any other way and not because he was good at it, and he hadn't been, not at the beginning. Steve had been down that dark alley once, he should've realized.

"I'm sorry," the super soldier whispered, honest regret tinting his apology.

Harry took a couple of deep breaths. "Don't think about it," he found himself saying when he looked at the hunched form of the Captain. Harry wasn't really angry, shaken, yes, but angry, no. The wizard knew himself and, had their roles been reversed, he wouldn't have let a chance like this to pass him by. Why shouldn't Rogers do the same? Besides, the man was honestly sorry for the transgression. That had to count for something. "Come, it's time for lunch. After that I'll show you around. I'm sorry I didn't do it earlier, by the way," brilliant green eyes peered at the taller man form under long bangs. "The portraits didn't get you lost, did they?" The comeback of a dark blush on fair skin was enough answer.

Harry laughed and skipped ahead. If the sound was a bit strained and somewhat shaky no one commented on it.

"Hurry up, Steve. Maybe, if you eat all of your vegetables, we could go into town and catch a movie in the evening. You know, to start with the acclimation and all that. What do you say?"

"I'd like to."

"Then that's settled."

They talked no more, but Steve soon found himself choking back another apology as he caught sight of Harry shaking hands clutching his sketchbook in a white-knuckled grip. It was a miracle his fingers hadn't pierced the sturdy book from side to side.

Steve officially felt like scum.

* * *

_Harry started drawing the summer after Sirius death._

_Barely a week into the break Harry was starting to believe he would never sleep again without nightmares, feel anything remotely positive without guilt or even eat properly without his stomach rebelling against him. He didn't know what spurned him to pick up the pencil or what made him retrieve a spare piece of parchment or why, why, instead of doodling nonsense on it as he usually did, he drew. When he finally came out of the frenzied haze he had fallen into, he found himself staring at a drawing of his bedroom, a pretty horrible depiction of his frankly depressing bedroom._

_Harry blinked, blank eyes tracing the lines his old pencil had left behind with his hand guidance. It was awful, made more awful by his complete inexperience and lack of talent. But it wasn't that what captured and held his attention. It was the silence, the utter nothingness and complete quiet that had taken over his mind during the time it took him to draw his bedroom. He grabbed the memory of that moment and held it close, as if he could feel that tranquillity again if he did. The feeling did not return but the cogs in Harry's mind were moving at ferocious speed._

_If only he could replicate the feeling- but wait! Of course he could, he had done it once so he could do it twice. He looked back at his pitiful attempt. His old pencil number 2 evidently wasn't appropriate and parchment was a poor choice for support too._

_Not really giving himself time to think about anything but his objective, Harry dislodged the loose floorboard under his bed and retrieved his magically protected wallet. Every year before taking the Hogwarts Express Harry exchanged some muggle money just in case his dear family decided to starve him again or in the unlikely case he wanted something. For once the unlikely case won._

_Purchasing a cheap sketchbook, five different pencils and a special eraser Harry made his way towards the less visited parts of the park nearest to Privet Drive. He sat on a rusted bench and proceeded to lose himself within a white world that would soon be filled with grey lines that would hopefully resemble his models._

_No such luck. His first drawings were as awful as the first, or even more so. The trees looked sick, either too fat or starved to death, the flowers looked dangerous, as if they could and would jump out of the paper to attack him at any given moment, and was that a mushroom? He tilted the book to the side, well, now it looked like a mutant mushroom._

_It didn't matter much to Harry though. The only thing he wanted from his 'hobby' was to be able, if only for a moment, to forget about the real world, forget about magic and Sirius and life in general. However, like it happened with everything, even though he didn't possess a natural affinity to it, Harry's art improved. Little by little his dogs stopped resembling mutated pigs, his houses stopped turning out like flat like pancakes and embarrassingly childish, pigeons stopped looking like feathered balloons and so on. Every day he filled pages upon pages with his art. After that much practice it was only natural for his drawings to start reflecting reality as he saw it and, even though he didn't care in the beginning, he found pride in them._

_He never expected to find true enjoyment, contentment and sometimes happiness in his art. But he had and he relished on it._

_And when he went back to Hogwarts he told no one. Not. One. Soul. It was his secret to keep, and for someone whose whole life was practically public knowledge, it felt marvellous. Being able to have something to call his own filled him a strange sort of happiness. And then, he didn't know when and he didn't know why, but at some point his way of venting his feelings and distracting his mind from depression, had became something more, something he thoroughly enjoyed. It was almost like flying but without the added adrenaline._

Years had passed since then and his secret was still his own. Or it was until a curious Steve Rogers stumbled upon the library side room he had converted into a den and one of his sketchbooks. It wasn't _that_ bad, his rational mind told him. Steve seemed like an honourable man, he wouldn't take advantage of what he had seen. If only the rest of him could believe it.

If only he could stop feeling like he was standing naked each time those intense blue eyes focused on his person.

* * *

_**To be continued...**_

* * *

_**(1) **A shameless OC. They will come and go but none of them will have much bearing in the story as a whole.**  
**_

_**(2)** I know I may be overdoing it with the things they have in common. But remember that while they have gone through similar situations (as I've hinted) they are very different in personality and value different things._  
_ Steve wanted nothing more than enlisting in the army, Harry would've loved to be just another John Smith in the block and let the war sort itself out. Steve is an artist, he studied art (according to marvelwikia), Harry could've been a musician instead if he had come across a guitar that day. _

_In the end is my story and I do what I want with it. :P_

_Uploaded: 13/06/2012  
_


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